_Helen_. No--Yes, yes, I did. The little people where I went, I met by hundreds, Annie. Through the dark aisles, and the high arches, all decked in blue, and gold, and crimson, they sung me a most merry welcome. And such as these--see--You cannot think how like long-forgotten friends they looked, smiling up from their dark homes, upon me.

_Annie_. You have had chance enough to forget them, indeed,--it is two years, Helen, since you have been in those woods before. What could have tempted you there to-day?

_Helen_. Was there _danger_ then?--was there danger indeed?--I was by the wood-side ere I knew it, and then,--it was but one last look I thought to take--nay, what is it, Annie? George met me as I was coming home, and I remember something in his eye startled me at first; but if there was danger, I should have known of it before.

_Annie_. How could we dream of your going there this evening, when we knew you had never set your foot in those woods since the day Everard Maitland left Fort Edward?

_Helen_. Annie!

_Annie_. For me, I would as soon have looked to see Maitland himself coming from those woods, as you.

_Helen_. Annie! Annie Grey! You must not, my sister--do not speak that name to me, never again, _never_.

_Annie_. Why, Helen, I am sorry to have grieved you thus; but I thought--Look! look! There go those officers again,--there, in the lane between the orchards, Scarcely half an hour ago they went by to the fort in just such haste. There is something going on there, I am sure.

(_Helen rises from the window, and walks the room_.)

_Annie_. In truth there was a rumor this afternoon,--you are so timid and fanciful, our mother chose you should not hear it while it was rumor only; but 'tis said that a party of the enemy have been seen in those woods to-day, and, among them, the Indians we have counted so friendly.

Do you hear me, Helen?

_Helen_. That he should _live_ still! Yes, it is all real still! That heaven of my thought, that grows so like a pageant to me, is still _real_ somewhere. Those eyes--they are darkly shining now; this very moment that pa.s.ses _me_, drinks their beauty;--that voice,--that tone,--that very tone--on some careless ear, even now it wastes its luxury of blessing. Continents of hail and darkness, the polar seas--all earth's distance, could never have parted me from him; but now I live in the same world with him, and the everlasting walls blacken between us.

Those looks may shine on the dull earth and senseless stones, but not on me; on uncaring eyes, but not on mine; though for one moment of their lavished wealth, I could cheaply give a life without them; never again, never, never, never shall their love come to me.

_Annie_. Who would have thought she could cherish in secret a grief like this? Dear sister, we all believed you had forgotten that sad affair long ago,--we thought that you were happy now.

_Helen_. Happy?--I am, you were right; but I have been to-day down to the very glen where we took that last lovely walk together, and all the beautiful past came back to me like life.--I _am_ happy; you must count me so still.

_Annie_. With what I have just now heard, how can I?

_Helen_. It is this war that has parted us; and so, this is but my part in these n.o.ble and suffering times, and that great thought reaches overall my anguish. But for this war I might have been--hath this world such flowers, and do they call it a wilderness?--I might have been, even now, you know it, Annie, his wife, his wife, _his_. But our hearts are cunningly made, many-stringed; and often much good music is left in them when we count them broken. That which makes the bitterness of this lot, the inconceivable, unutterable bitterness of it, even that I can bear now, calmly, and count it G.o.d's kindness too.

_Annie_. I do not understand you, sister.

_Helen_. What if this young royalist, Annie, when he quarrelled with my brother, and took arms against my country, what if he had kept faith to _me?_

_Annie_. Well.

_Helen. Well?_ Oh no, it would not have been well. Why, my home would have been with that pursuing army now, my fate bound up with that hollow cause,--these very hands might have fastened the sword of oppression; nay, the sword whose edge was turned against you, against you all, and against the cause, that with tears, night and morning, you were praying for, and with your heart's best blood stood ready to seal every hour.

No, it is best as it is; or if my wish grows deeper still, if in my heart I envy, with murmuring thought, the blessed brides, on whose wedding dawns the laughing sun of peace, then with a wish I cast away the glory of these suffering times.--It is best as it is. I am content.

_Annie_. I wish I could understand you, Helen. You say, "if he had kept faith to you;"--carried you off, you mean! Do you mean, sister Helen, that of your own will you would ever have gone with him, with Everard Maitland,--that traitor?

_Helen. Gone with him_? Would I not? Would I not? Dear child, we talk of what, as yet, you know nothing of. Gone with _him_? Some things are holy, Annie, only until the holier come.

_Annie_. (_looking toward the door_.) Stay, stay. What is it, George?

(_George Grey comes in_.)

_George_. I was seeking our mother. What should it be, but ill news?

This tide is against us, and if it be not well-nigh full, we may e'en fold our arms for the rest. There, read that. (_Throwing her a letter_.)

Every face you see looks as if a thunder-cloud were pa.s.sing it. I heard one man say, just now, as I came in, that the war would be over in a fortnight's time. There'll be some blood spilt ere then, I reckon though.

_Helen_. What paper is that that reddens her cheek so suddenly?

_Annie_. The McGregor's!--think of it, Helen,--gone over to the British side, and St. John of the Glens, and--who brought you this letter, George? 'Tis false! I do not believe it, not a word of it. Why, here are twenty names, people that we know, the most honorable, too,--forsaking us now, at such a crisis!

_George_. Self-defence, self-defence, sister; their lands and their houses must be saved from devastation. What sort of barracks think you, would that fine country-seat of McGregor's make?--and St. John's--_he_ is a farmer you know, and his fields are covered with beautiful grain, that a week will ripen, and so, he is for turning his sword into a sickle;--besides, there are worse things than pillage threatened here.

Look, (_unfolding a hand-bill_.) Just at this time comes this villainous proclamation from Skeensborough, scattered about among our soldiers n.o.body knows how, half of them on the eve of desertion before, and the other half--what ails you, Helen?

_Helen_. There he stands!

_Annie_. Is she crazed? Why do you clasp your hands so wildly? for Heaven's sake, Helen!--her cheek is white as death.--Helen!

_Helen_. Is he gone, Annie?

_Annie_. As I live, I do not know what you are talking of. Nay, look; there is no one here, none that you need fear, most certainly.

_Helen_. I saw him, his eye was on me; there he stood, looking through that window, smiling and beckoning me.

_George_. Saw him? Who, in Heaven's name? This is fancy-work.

_Helen_. I saw him as I see you now. He stood on that roof,--an Indian,--I saw the crimson bars on his face, and the blanket, and the long wild hair on his shoulders; and--and, I saw the gleaming knife in his girdle,--Oh G.o.d! I did.

_George_. Ay, ay, 'twas that scoundrel that dogged us in our way home, I'll lay my life it was.

_Helen_. In our way home? An _Indian_, I said.

_George_. Well, well, and I say an Indian, a rascal Indian, was watching and following us all the way home just now.

_Helen_. George!

_George_. Then you did not see him after all. In truth, I did not mean you should, for we could not have hurried more, but all the time we sat in that shanty, while it rained, about as far off as that chair from me, stood this same fellow among the bushes, watching us, or rather you. And you saw him here t He might have crept along by that orchard wall. What are you laughing at, Annie?--I will go and see what sort of a guard we have.

_Annie_. If you knew as much of Helen's Indians as I do, you would hardly be in such a hurry, George, I mean about this one that was here just now, for there are Indians in yonder forest I suppose; but since we were so high, I never walked in the woods with her once, but that we encountered one, or heard his steps among the bushes at least; and if it chanced to be as late as this, there would be half a dozen of them way laying us in the road,--but sometimes they turned out squirrels, and sometimes logs of wood, and sometimes mere air, air of about this color.

We want a little light, that is all. There is no weapon like that for these fancy-people. I can slay a dozen of them with a candle's beams.

(_George goes out_.)

_Helen_. Do not laugh at me to-night, Annie.

_Annie_. But what should the Indians want of you, pry'thee; tell me that, Helen?

_Helen_. G.o.d knows. Wait till the sun sets to-morrow, and I will laugh with you if you are merry then.

_Annie_. Why to-morrow?--because it is our last day here? Tuesday--Wednesday--yes; the next day we shall be on the road to Albany.

[_Exit_.